William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

heads off those who defied her. But she is three hundred years too late for that, and she is far too clever a woman to overshoot the mark. Better to give them a little and remove the spur of rebellion. You cannot rule a people who hate you, except for a very short time. She has a long vision. She sees generations on the throne, stretching into the future.”
    “But there are no heirs,” Monk pointed out.
    “Which brings us to the crux of the matter,” Eugen replied. “If Friedrich had returned without Gisela, if he had set her aside and married again, then there would have been.” Heleaned forward, his face fierce in its intensity. “No man of the Queen’s party would ever have killed Friedrich. That is absolute! If he was murdered, then look for someone who is for unification, who does not mind being swallowed by Prussia, Hannover, Bavaria, or any of a score of others strong enough. Or one who had been promised office or possessions by any faction he believes can succeed. There was an attempt in ’48 to make one of the Austrian archdukes king of all Germany. It failed, thank God. But that does not mean they could not try again.”
    Monk’s head swam.
    “The possibilities are endless.”
    “No—but they are large.” Eugen began to eat hungrily, and Monk copied him. He was surprised how much he enjoyed the food.
    “What about Prince Waldo?” Monk asked with his mouth full.
    “I will take you to meet him,” Eugen promised. “Tomorrow.”
    Eugen kept his word. His valet had pressed Monk’s clothes. His evening suit hung in the wardrobe. His shirts were all laundered and gleaming white. His studs and cuff links were laid out on the tallboy, as were his brushes and toiletries. He spared a moment to be glad he had had the vanity and extravagance to purchase things of excellent quality at some time in that past he could not remember.
    He had got as far as choosing cuff links, agate set in gold, when without warning he remembered vividly doing exactly the same, with these same links, before going to a dinner party in London. He had been accompanying the man who had taught him, sponsored him and sheltered him. He had had forbearance with Monk’s ignorance and lack of polish, his impetuosity and occasional rudeness. With immeasurable patience, he had schooled him not only in the profession ofinvestment banking, but in the arts of being a gentleman. He had taught him how to dress well without being ostentatious; how to tell a good cut, a good art; how to choose a pair of boots, a shirt; even how to treat one’s tailor. He had taught him which knife and fork to use, how to hold them elegantly, which wine to select, when and how to speak and when to keep silent, when it was appropriate to laugh. Over a period of years he had made the provincial Northumbrian youth into a gentleman, sure of himself, with that unconscious air of confidence that marks the well-bred from the ordinary.
    It was all there in his mind as his hand touched the small piece of jewelry. He was back in his mentor’s house in London, twenty or more years before, about to go to dinner. The occasion was important. Something was going to happen, and he was afraid. He had enemies, and they were powerful. It was within their ability to destroy his career, even to have him arrested and imprisoned. He had been accused of something profoundly dishonorable. He was innocent, but he could not prove it … not to anyone. The fear gripped ice-cold inside him and there was no escape. It took all the strength he had to quell the panic which rose like a scream in his throat.
    But it had not happened. At least he was almost sure of that. Why not? What had prevented it? Had he rescued himself? Or had someone else? And at what cost?
    Monk had tried desperately to fight against injustice before, and lost. It had come to him before, a fragment at a time. He had remembered his mentor’s wife, her face as she wept silently, the tears running down her cheeks in despair.
    He would have given anything he possessed to be able to help. But he had nothing. No money, no influence, no ability that was a shred of use.
    He did not know what had happened after that. All he could claw back from the darkness of amnesia was the sense of tragedy, rage and futility. He knew that was why he had given up banking and gone into the police: to fight against injusticeslike that, to find and punish the cheaters and destroyers, to prevent it happening again, and again, to other